Instinct
by Unhobbity Hobbit
Summary: John came back from his last hunt a werewolf. Preseries AU.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I got pondering on the SPN-brand werewolves and how they're not mindless killing machines and then I took some artistic licence.

Instinct

John's been tossing and turning restlessly for about an hour now and Dean really wishes that he'd just give up the ghost and go research or something because Dean can't get to sleep with him like that. It's bad enough that Sammy's got his elbow wedged at a really annoying angle. But John only got back a few nights ago and he was really beat up and Dean suspects that that's what's causing all the trouble.

Dean sighs as John shifts again, the rustling loud in this quiet, out-of-the-way motel where there isn't even the sound of cars passing to distract him. Sammy's lucky; his head hits the pillow and he's asleep, just like that. Doesn't matter to Sammy what John's doing or where certain elbows have been placed. Dean's eyes rove around the room for something interesting to look at. He settles on the vague shadowy lump that is his dad in the next bed, still shifting even though it's not a full-blown turn over.

John groans, which makes Dean instantly on edge and tense; ready to get up if John needs him. Then John growls and it's the kind of noise Dean imagines he makes on a particularly frustrating hunt; when the creature's more elusive than first expected. John sits up and pushes himself to the edge of the bed in one swift movement, which Dean should really be thankful for seeing as now he can't keep moving around in his bed, but there's a curl of unease in Dean's belly and he can't quite work out why.

John gets up and starts pacing the room, which he really shouldn't, not with the injuries he has. He walks up and down the long side of the room, glancing out the window and pausing at the door as if expecting something to have changed since the last time. Dean's unease slowly grows as he watches John move in a way that isn't quite his. He shuffles back quietly and holds Sammy's arm, just to be sure that he's there. John's head snaps up at his movement and Dean's unease blooms into terror when the moonlight filtering through the curtains catches John's eyes and they're not John's eyes any more.

Dean tries to slow his breathing, make it sound like he's still asleep, perhaps the thing, the thing that's not John, will carry on ignoring them. Luck isn't on Dean's side, though and the thing comes slowly towards their bed. Dean slips his hand under his pillow to clutch the blade he always sleeps with and tries to rouse Sammy with his other arm, all the while trying to look like he isn't preparing to run or fight or do whatever it takes to survive.

Sammy mumbles Dean's name sleepily, but Dean keeps shaking him, eyes fixed on the thing that's not his dad as it comes closer. Dean can't work out what the thing wants, because it's taking the slowest steps in the world, it could have killed them twenty times over by now. Perhaps it just wants a fight.

Sammy whines at being disturbed, which is when Dean decides to stop playing this waiting game. He kicks and shoves Sammy off the far side of the bed and quickly follows after, pulling Sammy up onto his feet and then standing resolutely between him and the thing. The thing hasn't sped up at all, despite its prey's actions. Dean's holding his knife out towards it and Sammy's woken up enough to know the something bad's happening and is clinging to Dean's free arm like his life depends on it.

The things stalks closer and then stops just outside the reach of Dean's blade, which is looking really pathetically small in comparison. Dean backs up and the thing follows, Sammy's whimpering now, shifting between saying Dean's name and calling for their dad to come save them, almost like a prayer. Even in the dull light, it's possible to see the thing's grin and the glint of its sharp teeth. Dean wants to say something reassuring to Sammy and maybe something cocky to make himself feel better, but he's having a hard enough time trying to stop his hand shaking. His dad trained him for this and it's all going to waste.

The thing takes another step closer but Dean stands his ground, pushing Sammy even further behind him. Dean decides to make the first move and lunges with his knife. The thing slaps it out of his hand easily and leaves two deep cuts in the back of Dean's hand. Dean's now completely unarmed, with no way to protect Sammy and the only course of action he can think of is to distract it long enough for Sammy to escape, except then the thing falls to its knees in front of Dean and grips him by his arms, clamping them to his sides.

It brings its face closer, but it isn't an it, it's still John's face but for the blue eyes with cat-like slits for pupils and a slightly odd shape to his lips where they don't fit properly over the teeth. The thing that might be John is frowning as it looks Dean over, gripping tighter and digging in its claws. Its gaze then shifts to where Sammy is trying to push himself into the wall, wide and frightened eyes fixed on the two of them. Dean doesn't like the shift of attention and tries to turn his head and shout over his shoulder for Sammy to run, to get the hell out and don't come back but he's pulled in towards the huge body in front of him and crushed to it so hard it knocks the breath right out of him.

He's being held in place with just one arm, holding him in such away that he's completely unable to do anything more than stumble over his own feet as it shuffles closer to Sammy. Sammy is edging along the wall into the corner, eyes flicking about for something he might be able to use to defend himself, but the only conceivable weapon nearby is a bedside table and that's far too big.

The thing that should be trying to hurt them, that doesn't move or behave like John but is using John's body and John's face, holds a hand out to Sammy like he's a shy dog that it wants to be friends with. It's even smiling at him, which shows off its alarmingly huge teeth, but also dimples its cheeks and crinkles its eyes in a way that reminds Sammy so much of his dad.

The thing that can't be, but just might be John then moves forward too fast for Sammy to react to or even see and he's caught up by its arm the same way Dean is being held in the other arm. Dean's hand closes around Sammy's; if these are their last moments then they're going to be there for one another. The monster that their dad's become squeezes them both so hard that Dean thinks that might be how it's going to kill them, squeezing the life out of them; hugging them to death.

The creature that Dean's still reluctant to believe is John eases up just before breathing becomes a real issue and buries its face in Dean's hair and breathes. He feels Sammy tighten the hold he's got on his hand and squeezes back. The creature then does the same with Sammy and Dean can see from where his face is pressed into its shoulder that it looks happy and is smiling into Sammy's hair.

The creature – though Dean supposes he should just accept that it's his dad, now – then lowers his head and rests his face against the side of Dean's neck, inhaling deeply, smelling him, Dean realises. He feels the hesitant touch of teeth and tenses up, though still held tight and unable to do a damn thing about the situation. The creature backs off then and turns his head to do the same for Sammy; get Sammy's scent. Sammy whimpers and Dean would squeeze his hand harder if here weren't already squeezing hard as he could.

A warm, deep, contented hum rumbles through the creature's chest as he pulls his head up to get a good look at both Sammy and Dean. The clawed hands are now rubbing slowly in what could be seen as a soothing way, Dean wouldn't go quite that far, but it's more reassuring than the earlier death grip. The creature smiles at them both, every inch their father but for the eyes and the unnaturally sharp canine caught on his bottom lip.

"My boys," says John.

The End.

I hope you enjoyed!


	2. Protection

A/N: Another chapter? Another chapter! Completely different from the first, by the way, guys. Set a few years after as well.

Protection

There's three of them, by all accounts, so he's made sure that there are four men on his side; outnumbering them is always a good plan, if you can manage it. It's a long trek into the forest, seems like they know what they are and are trying to hide while the moon's full, or get far enough away from civilisation that nobody will disturb them. It's a valiant effort, but it hasn't worked. One teacher in the nearby town is dead now.

It wouldn't usually have caught his attention, but he was passing through, and the viciousness of the attack piqued his interest. Then there was an unexplained increase in mauled animals being found out on the hiking trails. A little searching here and asking some questions there and he'd finally come to the conclusion that there were werewolves and that there were three of them.

So here he was, with three of his hunting friends, almost at the place he thinks that they're staying. An old hunting cabin, completely uninhabitable, unless you're a desperate werewolf. Sure enough, there's the sound of growling up ahead. Everyone becomes that little bit quieter as they cock their gun and hold them in ready positions. He leads the way and slowly edges around a tree to see that they've found two of them. They aren't quite what he expected.

They sound for all the world like two dogs play fighting. Or more accurately a dog and a puppy. They look for all the world like two boys enjoying a wrestling match. An image of his own young boy flashes before his eyes, but he blinks it away; now is not the time to be getting sentimental.

The older wolf – maybe all of fourteen years old – stops and looks right in their direction. He swears and lets off a shot, shortly followed by another and the rest of his buddies join in, but the wolf has already snatched up the younger one and disappeared into the forest towards the cabin.

They give chase, not melting through the trees with quite the same ease as the wolves, but just as quick. The cabin isn't far, but when they get there, it's silent like it hasn't been disturbed in years. Had they not already seen the wolves, they wouldn't know that anything had been here. Two hunters break off and circle around the cabin to check for a back door, or any sign that the wolves have made off into the forest, but there's nothing.

He cautiously approaches the cabin, gun at the ready, and peers in through a broken window. There's a fireplace and a few old pieces of furniture, nothing of any interest apart from the rotting cupboard. The door's hanging off its hinges, but it still offers enough cover to hide at least one of the wolves. He signals that he's going in.

He carefully pushes the cabin door open. The others cover him, two facing outwards at the forest, ready for that elusive third wolf and one aiming his gun through the window, ready for any movement whatsoever. Nothing so far, so he moves further in, sweeping over the whole room with his gun. This is the only room, so if the wolves aren't in here, then they've got a long chase through the trees ahead of them, which he's really not looking forward to.

He focusses on the cupboard, creeping slowly towards it until he's right in front of it, where he pauses. He holds his breath and listens. There, in the silence, he can hear quick, panting breaths. Just one set, but that's all he needs. He reaches towards the door, ready to push it aside.

There's a loud bang and something barrels into him from the side. He lands on his back, weighed down by the older wolf, which is smeared with soot. It bites down on his neck; going straight in for the kill, but is distracted by another gunshot from the window. It rolls them to the side, pulling him with it, so he's practically lying on top of it. He realises why the moment a hastily shot bullet rips through him. He tries to cry out, but his throat doesn't want to work and breathing is hard enough. He can feel wet warmth running down his neck and dripping to the floor.

Everything's gone quiet. He can feel the wolf underneath him breathing and chances a look down at it, but all he can see is the top of its scruffy head, which could belong to any teenage boy. He can hear its muffled whimpers and feel the fist it still has clenched in his shirt shaking. There's a small whimper from the cupboard, which the elder answers with a growl.

He then realises that the others are calling his name and manages a groan in response. The wolf's head snaps up and he looks into its unnaturally blue eyes. He can see that it's scared, which is unusual, because he knows werewolves as angry creatures, but this one knows exactly how out of its depth it is. He can't find the energy to have any deep thoughts on this, though, as his neck is burning with pain and he feels like someone's shoved a hot poker right through his midsection and set it aflame.

He can hear a set of boots cautiously making their way towards him. The wolf curls back in on itself, shaking and whimpering.

One of the others – he can't tell which – yells and a gun goes off and he has no idea what's going on, but it's not good because someone yells again. Then there's a bloodcurdling scream and more gunfire. He squeezes his eyes shut and wishes he'd bleed out quicker, because this is agony and listening to his friends being ripped to shreds isn't making it any better. Silence falls once more. There are footsteps approaching and he's just as tense as the wolf under him.

A hand on his shoulder rolls him off the wolf and onto his back. He can't hold back the moan that the movement pulls out of him. He stares up at a great hulk of a man that must be the third wolf because it's dripping with blood. Its eyes rove over him but it quickly dismisses him as harmless, and moves onto the wolf he'd been unwillingly shielding. It gives a quick bark and the youngest wolf slips out of the cupboard at long last.

The youngest's eyes lock with his for a moment but then quickly move on. He realises now that this isn't a random group of wolves; this is a family. A father and two sons, he guesses. The youngest dashes to its brother's side and nudges up alongside it. The brother smiles and ruffles its hair.

The oldest wolf, the father – he wonders briefly if the father turned the children or the other way around – pulls up its oldest son's shirt, earning a pained yowl. It's got a nasty bullet wound in its belly, made worse because it's silver. The youngest tries to lick the wound clean but it's pushed away and settles for licking away the tears and smudges of soot while the father comes around and puts pressure on the wound.

He catches the father's eye and is struck by the familiar worry he can see in them. He's felt that way over his son before, lots of times before. His mind drifts off into half-formed imaginings of watching his son grow older.

The father growls and he comes back to himself to find the youngest's face hanging over him, watching him curiously. He can't really focus very well and everything slips in and out. He thinks perhaps he sees the flash of teeth, but then everything goes dark and it doesn't really matter any more.

The End?

Probably not.


	3. Hunters

A/N: Yeah, uh, another outside PoV!

Hunters

Arthur was an idiot.

This was in no way a new concept. In fact, first time she'd seen him she was six years old and he was trying to eat his own foot. Sandy's first thought had been 'my brother is an idiot'. After a few years that was extended to 'my brother is an idiot and will be until the day he dies', which eventually evolved into Sandy's current thought, that being 'my brother is an idiot and will be until the day he dies, which is going to be pretty goddamn soon at this rate'.

Really, there were idiots, then there were _idiots_. It took a special (and special really is the word for it) kind of person to think that diving head-first into a hunt for a wendigo was a good idea. That is, if Arthur had actually thought anything at all, which it was entirely possible that he hadn't, seeing as he was such an idiot and all.

So, Sandy was driving somewhere in the region of twice the speed limit to get to her brother and either back him up or drag him back, depending on how stubborn he was feeling. Her heart had been beating fit to burst right out of her chest ever since she saw the note that honest-to-god said 'It's a wendigo, be back soon'. That kind of thing is all well and good if it's a mildly irritated spirit you're going after and you're freakishly good at digging graves (as Arthur is). But what part of _expert hunter_ did Arthur not get? Had he glossed over the part where it said that wendigoes are incredibly hard to kill in the daytime and practically impossible to kill at night? Sandy could answer that question. Yes, yes he had glossed over that. Otherwise he wouldn't have shot off at twenty minutes to midnight to go kill a wendigo. At least, Sandy hoped that was the case because she really didn't want to be related to someone quite as idiotic as all that.

Sandy screeched the car to a halt in a small car park just off the road, barely missing her brother's car by inches, though it would serve him right if she had hit it, dammit. She scrambled out of the car, grabbing the duffel full of weapons and flashlight from the passenger seat as she went and then set off down the path. She sincerely hoped Arthur had at least stuck to the path because this was a huge forest and she was pretty sure the wendigo had better tracking skills that she did.

It took half an hour, half an hour Sandy did not want to ever have to go through again, but she finally saw him up ahead.

"Arthur!" she shouted. Arthur turned and stared at her, face white in the beam of her flashlight.

"Sandy! What the fuck?" he said eventually in a hushed voice.

"What the fuck yourself!" Sandy started making her way over to him.

"Stop fucking shouting!"

"Stop being such a fucking idiot!"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you kidding me? You came out here _alone_. You're hunting a _wendigo_. You're hunting a wendigo _alone_. At _night_. Is there something loose in your head?" Arthur had nothing to say in retaliation, which figured. She grabbed his arm (hard enough to leave a bruise, she hoped). "We're going back." Arthur struggled against her grip.

"No we're not!"

"What do you mean 'no we're not'? Yes we fucking are!"

"I heard noises up ahead, I think we're close."

"You heard noises? Jesus, Arthur, that's how it lures its prey in!"

"But we're not prey, we know--" Arthur was cut off by a howl off to the North that sounded alarmingly close.

"You're sure it's a wendigo?"

"Yeah... yeah, there aren't any remains to be found and there's a network of caves that it can use for storage. And, you know, it moves too fast to be seen and only takes people that have got a lot of meat on them." And somehow, knowing all this, Arthur had thought it a good idea to go after it in the dead of night. Sandy tried to remember back to see if anyone had dropped him on his head as a baby.

"So what's with the wolf howl?"

"Wendigoes can sound like anything they want to."

"But why a wolf?"

"I don't know." Arthur grinned at her mischievously. "But it's definitely luring me in." He turned off the path and started walking North towards the howl. Sandy followed, muttering about idiot brothers and pondering on the best method of haunting once he inevitably got her killed with his stupidity.

Ten minutes of nothing later there was another howl off to the West, followed shortly by another to the North. That was incredibly unnerving because wendigoes couldn't move _that_ fast, could they? If that was so then they were even more screwed than Sandy had originally thought. She was turning every which way, sure that they were about to be leapt on any second. Arthur stilled her with a hand on her shoulder and indicated North-West. Sandy listened.

"Mommy!" came a broken cry. Ah, fuck. Arthur set off towards it immediately and it took a few steps for Sandy catch up with him and bring him to a halt.

"What if it's the wendigo?"

"What if it's not the wendigo?"

"What weapons have you got?" Arthur slipped his backpack off and pulled out a bottle with cloth stuffed in the top.

"Molotov cocktails?" Arthur nodded. "That's it?"

"You can only kill it with fire."

"_What?_ Well then this whole bag is completely useless!" All the same, she tucked a .45 into the back of her pants and got out a shotgun, feeling much safer with them than without them. They slowly approached where it sounded like there was a small girl sniffing and crying, Arthur with his lighter and one of the bottles at the ready.

All of a sudden there was a sharp bark and then a hell of a lot of growling, followed by the shriek of a young girl. They both rushed forward until the shriek turned into a noise no human could make. They came to a stop just outside of a small clearing.

"Holy shit," Sandy breathed. Arthur was speechless.

In the clearing was the unmistakable shape of a wendigo being attacked by what appeared to be two men. But that couldn't be right because no two men in the world could take on a wendigo in hand-to-hand combat and come out on top like these two were. Jesus Christ, they'd just ripped its arm off!

The wendigo was screeching and screaming and the two men-things were growling constantly. They backed off together at some unseen signal and circled their prey. The wendigo tried to lash out at them but its aim was off. Sandy suppressed the urge to shine her flashlight into the clearing to get a better idea of what was going on.

One of the man-things leapt at the wendigo's neck from behind, shortly followed by the other coming at the neck from the front. Together they brought it down and once it was on the ground they really laid into it and wendigo body parts flew all over the clearing. They stopped at exactly the same time, as though they shared a brain, and turned towards where Arthur and Sandy were crouched. The slightly larger one growled and it was quite blatantly growling _at_ them. Well, shit.

Arthur, being his usual forward-thinking self, leapt out brandishing his lighter and Molotov cocktail before Sandy could explain that it was a bad idea. Or knock him out, both would work. The second thing started growling at this point. Considering they hadn't already leapt at her brother and started ripping him limb from limb as they were clearly able to, Sandy was prepared to take it as a warning rather than a provocation.

"Arthur, what the fuck do you think you're doing, you dipshit?" Arthur ignored her. Sandy grabbed her flashlight and shone it into the faces of the man-things, partially to dazzle them, partially so she'd know what she was going to be killed by when Arthur eventually screwed everything up.

Werewolves. Growling, snarling werewolves showing off their great big, fuck off, dripping-with-blood teeth. She heard Arthur swear under his breath.

"Arthur, get right the fuck back here!" Arthur glanced at her, which she'd kill him for, taking his eye off the enemy like that. That was, if their enemy didn't do it for her. Surprisingly enough, they didn't. Their growling even died down.

"Have you got anything silver in that bag?"

"No. And even if I did, we're not taking on two werewolves!"

"We haven't got a choice!"

"They haven't attacked us yet. So far they've just stood there--"

"--growling," Arthur helpfully added.

"--whatever. I'm not shooting until they actually start attacking." Mostly because she didn't have any silver bullets and shooting a werewolf with something that wasn't silver would be a pretty desperate last-ditch attempt.

The larger werewolf put its hand (paw? Claw?) on the other's shoulder and nodded towards the forest behind them. The other one nodded like it was agreeing with something and backed off, giving a last sharp bark before turning and disappearing into the forest at the other side of the clearing.

Sandy came forward cautiously so she was standing next to Arthur and they glanced each other. The remaining werewolf's growling trailed off completely as it backed off. It backed far enough into the forest that they could forget it was there if they were at all inclined to. Which they weren't.

They both came forward enough to look over the bloody mess that was the wendigo. It was still twitching. That was completely disgusting.

"Only fire can kill it," Arthur said quietly, unplugging the top of the bottle he still had in his hands and pouring the contents over the wendigo. Sandy got out another bottle and did the same then stood back for Arthur to set it alight.

Arthur did so, barely escaping being set alight himself. For the first time that night it was possible for them to see clearly without their flashlights. Sandy spotted an errant wendigo arm and threw it on their gruesome bonfire.

It also meant that they could see the werewolf watching them. It didn't back any further into the forest, it just stayed and watched them, even as the blood dried on its face and clothes. Its eyes reflected the orange firelight back at them and made it look even more creepy. In fact, if it were just Sandy out here on her own, she couldn't say for certain that she wouldn't run screaming from its piercing gaze (which was not something that Arthur needed to know). She stared it out, which was possibly not the best thing to do when faced with a werewolf, but she didn't want to look elsewhere. She just wanted it to leave or attack, just do something because waiting really sucked.

It did neither. Instead the second werewolf returned, bringing with it a third, smaller, _younger_ one. Sandy's eyes widened, but was prepared to let them go (ha! Like she could stop them!) so long as they didn't attack first. What didn't help the situation, was Arthur cocking his gun and, presumably (Sandy still wasn't taking her eyes off the werewolves), aiming it right at them. The original two werewolves pushed the younger one behind them and hunched forward, ready to spring out of the forest, growling and snarling like rabid dogs. And was it the shadows, or did they actually look bigger?

Sandy grabbed the barrel of her brother's gun and forced it to point at the floor. Well, that did something; the werewolves didn't look quite so rage-filled, but still a lot more rage-filled than you'd want any werewolf to look. They didn't look quite convinced that they should let Sandy and Arthur live. Sandy needed to diffuse the situation and she needed to act fast.

"Sorry about my brother!" she called out, wondering what exactly she thought she was doing, "He's a complete moron!" To Sandy's astonishment the werewolves relaxed and returned to their previous stances. The youngest pushed its way to the front with a slightly unnerving grin (though were they in any other time and place and were the little one not wolfed-out, she would have called it adorable). It – quite cheerfully, it seemed – barked at her, earning itself a smack upside the head for its trouble. It elbowed back and was then pulled into a headlock by... it had to be its older brother. Sandy had pulled that move often enough to know it when she saw it. It was usually followed by a noogie. Did werewolves noogie one another?

No, apparently not, because the little one bit its brother's arm and after a whole lot of grappling and biting that was too fast for her to see properly and should've been too hard for any boy that age to manage, they were rolling on the floor having a wrestling match. Sandy was pretty sure she was going to start catching flies soon, the way her mouth was hanging open. The gun jerked in her grip, but Sandy kept it aimed at the floor. Arthur was not going to get them killed tonight. Tonight he was just going to let the werewolves go, the idiot.

The oldest of the werewolves looked like it sighed and... rolled its eyes? Do werewolves do that? Then it barked and the other two were up and on their feet as if they hadn't been rolling around on the ground just a moment before, though they had twigs in their hair to prove it. The family of werewolves skirted around the edge of the clearing and melted into the darkness, leaving Sandy and Arthur blinking at each other, quite shocked.

"So," said Arthur after a while, "Are we done here? Can we go home?"

"Are you kidding? There are three werewolves out there! I'm not going anywhere till morning!"

The End.

I will write something about the Winchesters themselves at some point. Really I will...


	4. Aftermath

A/N: Yeah, this chapter actually comes directly after the second chapter in terms of the timeline. For some reason, I didn't write it then. I'll dedicate this one to NovemberSN because I still feel kind of bad for being so confusing.

Aftermath

John cracked an eye open. He was lying on the floor staring up at the ceiling. It was a familiar ceiling, which was a relief; it could take a whole day to find his way back to his boys if he didn't know where he was when he woke up. But he did know where he was and he could hear his boys breathing. This was starting out as one of his better wakings.

Until he really opened his eyes and looked around the cabin.

It was horrific. Body parts strewn across the whole room. The flies had already started to move in, which wasn't surprising because it stank. John sat up, eliciting a groan from Dean, who was lying close, his arm across John's chest. It was how they always woke when they were together; curled up with, over and around each other.

John looked down at his sons and froze. Sammy was snuggled into Dean's side and he would have looked angelic were his face not covered in dried, flaking blood. John reached out to him, his heart pumping hard with the possibility that it could be Sam's blood and that if it wasn't, then it was someone else's. John stopped his hand just short of Sam's face and spread it out. His skin was stiff with dried blood and there was God knew what under his nails. From the feel of his face, it had the same gruesome coating.

His focus moved on from himself to Dean. Dean's face was clean, cleaner than when they went to sleep. He was frowning, though, his mouth was a thin, tight line and his whole body was tense. He was weakly clutching at his stomach with the arm that wasn't trapped under Sammy.

John carefully moved Dean's arm aside and pulled his shirt up. There was a bullet wound. Someone had shot his son. Well, that explained the gory scene that he'd woken up to. Dean moaned and batted at John ineffectually. John examined the wound, which brought Dean harshly into the waking world. John put his hand on Dean's forehead and smiled at him.

"Ssh, Dean, be careful, don't wake Sammy." Sammy couldn't see the carnage in here, John wouldn't forgive himself if he did. John didn't particularly want Dean to see the carnage either, but that decision had been taken out of his hands.

"Dad, y-your face, what happened?"

"Someone tried to hunt us, Dean." Dean's eyes widened.

"Hunt us? What... How did we...?" He struggled to get his free arm under him and push himself up, grimacing and grunting. John pushed him back down firmly and held him there, but Dean saw enough of the room to get his answer. "We killed them?" Dean looked up to him with eyes that begged to make it all better, to make it all go away. John couldn't, God, he couldn't, he'd brought this hell down on them all.

"_I_ killed them. You... you were shot, you can't have..."

"What about Sammy?"

"Dean!" John snapped, "I killed them, you got that?" Dean gave a tight nod.

"Yes, sir." John nodded and continued his examination. The wound had stopped bleeding long before they'd woken up and the bullet had been removed. John was kind of glad none of them would be able to remember that part of the procedure. "Christ, Dad, have you seen Sam's face? Is he all right?"

"We need to get out of here, do you think you can walk?"

"Yeah," said Dean immediately, without even pausing to think. John stood up. The whole scene looked no better from his new vantage point. There were pieces of men everywhere, John could only make a vague guess at how many whole men they made up. There was a relatively unscathed body in the corner of the room by the old, broken cabinet, but it was just as dead at the others.

John offered a hand to Dean and Dean took it. John hauled him to his feet. Dean cried out and Sammy shifted in his sleep, having been dislodged from Dean's side and no doubt disturbed by the noise.

"Dean, keep it down!" John was almost paralyzed by an overwhelming fear that Sammy would wake up and see the evidence of what had happened the night before. John couldn't do that to him, couldn't bear to see his youngest lose any more innocence than he already had. Sometimes, it seemed the last of Dean's innocence had already slipped through his hands like sand. "Don't look, Dean. Keep your eyes on the floor." Dean obeyed without a word. John quickly scooped Sammy up, while still trying to keep Dean upright. Sam fidgeted from all the jostling and opened his eyes to look up at John.

"Daa...?" he said, not yet awake enough to form a whole word. John tried smiling, but doubted that it looked like anything reassuring.

"Just go back to sleep, Sammy, it's not time to get up yet." Sammy nodded sleepily and burrowed into John's arms, gripping his shirt. John ducked a little for Dean to put his arm over his shoulder. Sammy was too big to carry with just one arm now, so Dean was going to have to struggle on without John's full support.

They were well into the woods before Dean collapsed into a tree. Definitely far enough for Sammy to safely wake up. John gave Sam a little shake.

"Sam, come on, time to wake up." Sam groaned and tried to hide his face from the early morning sunlight. "Sam!" John said, completely abandoning the pretense of this being a normal waking. Dean's legs were shaking and he wouldn't be able to hold his own weight much longer. Sam's eyes opened fully. John stood Sam on the ground, giving him another little shake to make sure he had his balance before leaving him to go to Dean.

"How do you feel, Sam? You injured at all?" Sam stood looking blearily around him and didn't answer. "Sam!" John barked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes, sir!" Sam replied. John turned his attention fully to Dean. Dean was obviously in pain, he was shaking from head to foot but trying to hide it. Dean would walk himself into unconsciousness if he could.

"Okay, Dean, easy now," he put his hand on Dean's shoulder, "I'm going to carry you."

"No, Dad, I can walk."

"I'm going to carry you," John insisted and Dean seemed to sag, eyes falling to look at the floor, accepting of his fate. John hefted Dean up into his arms and despite Dean's reluctance, he looked more relaxed once he was settled there. Sam gasped behind them.

"Dad, what happened?" Sam was staring at his blood covered hands in horror, then he looked up at John and Dean. "What's going on, is Dean okay?"

"We need to get moving," said John over the top of Dean assuring Sam that he was fine. John set off towards the Impala. Luckily, the car wasn't more than a mile away; it's where they left all of their equipment and first aid kit. Guilt shot through John with Dean's every wince and hitched breath.

"Dad, what happened?" said Sam again, almost jogging to keep up. John should have expected the questions to start once Sam woke up enough to be aware of his surroundings, but that didn't stop it riling him.

"We were attacked."

"By what?"

"A monster."

"What kind?"

"I don't know!" There was a short silence after John's terse reply.

"Did it get Dean?"

"Yes."

"But I thought only silver could really hurt us."

"Sammy," Dean jumped in with and John was very grateful that he did, "Maybe the thing had silver claws. We can't remember any better than you can." Sam didn't question any further, which John appreciated on the surface, but it made Dean's involuntary moans of pain so much louder in the silence.

They reached the Impala quickly, it was untouched where they'd left it.

"Sammy, keys." Sam dug into John's pocket and pulled out the keys, hurrying to unlock the car. John lay Dean down on the back seat, as it was the most comfortable place for him. Sammy was already hauling the medical kit out of the trunk. He put it on the floor in the back of the car and then got out of the way; it was cramped enough in there with just John and Dean. Sam must have caught a glance of the wound as John was patching it up. He waited until John was mostly finished with it.

"That looks like a bullet--"

"No it doesn't!" John shouted back, wishing that Sam wasn't quite so intelligent and hoping that he wouldn't put two and two together.

"It's a stab wound," said Dean, "Just looks a little like a bullet wound, okay? They can do that sometimes." Sam nodded.

John had finished patching Dean up completely before he noticed that Sam was being far too quiet. John looked over and found him standing just outside the car, chin wobbling but trying hard not to cry. It was a fair reaction for a ten-year-old to have after waking up covered in blood with his brother injured badly. Now the danger had passed for the most part, John could allow him that.

"Come here, Sammy." Sam eyed him warily before giving up and climbing into the car, trying not to jostle Dean too much. John pulled him into and awkward one-armed hug. Sam started crying in earnest.

"Hey, Sammy," said Dean in his best soothing-big-brother voice. "It's not that bad; you'll get to sit shotgun now!" John felt Sammy nod and try to laugh. All John could think was _I'm sorry_.

The End.

Hope you enjoyed!


	5. Meeting

A/N: So, this chapter comes directly after chapter 3 (well, the next morning). This is possibly the closest I'll ever get to writing in chronological order.

Meeting

John was looking forward to getting the hell out of dodge. This wasn't a rare sentiment for John to be having at all; he liked to keep moving. He didn't like to hang around and be reminded of nights he couldn't remember, or find evidence of what they'd done while the wolf was in control. So, he was stocking up ready for another long car journey.

John had been expecting to hunt a wendigo once the full moon passed, but they had checked the area out earlier in the day and followed the smell of burning to find that someone had got there before them. That was just the way it went sometimes. Strangely, John wasn't too annoyed about all the research going to waste.

John was trying to decide what drink would provoke less complaints and he wasn't getting very far because his mind kept wandering. He could've called the boys in to choose for themselves, but that would just have brought too many opinions into the mix. He was just about to give up and just grab water when he heard someone come to the end of the aisle, stop dead and swear. He looked up to find a woman staring at him like he had two heads. He frowned at her and that seemed to boost her back into action.

"Sorry! Sorry!" she said, "Didn't mean to be rude, you just reminded me of someone." John nodded and looked back at the shelves upon shelves of different juices and fizzy drinks. It was going to have to be water, John just didn't have the brainpower for this kind of crap at the moment. Plus, that woman was still looking at him.

The door of the store slammed open, little bell jingling pointlessly because there wasn't anyone within a mile who hadn't heard _that_ entrance.

"Sandy!" the man yelled. The woman watching John grimaced and finally looked elsewhere, towards the commotion her companion was making. "Sandy, you will not believe what I saw out front." He finally reached her and grabbed her arm, ready to drag her back outside, presumably to show her whatever he'd found. "Sandy, I--" he stopped in his tracks when he looked at John, mouth opening and closing like a trout's. "Sandy, shit, Sandy!" he said, nudging and pointing like John was an animal in a zoo and Sandy actually needed him to be pointed out to her.

Sandy grinned apologetically at John before grabbing the other guy, turning him around and shoving him out of the door. John abandoned his search for something to quench thirsts in favour of finding out exactly who these two people were. His heart skipped as he thought of a reason that they'd remember him, but he wouldn't remember them. Why didn't people stay out of the woods during the full moon? John's life would be so much easier if they did.

He left his basket of various foodstuffs on the floor in the aisle and followed them out to the parking lot. Sandy dragged the guy towards a red car and started talking low and furiously to him. John hurried (without looking like he was) over to where his boys were sitting on the hood of the Impala. They both looked up at his approach

"We're leaving," he said. Dean's face lost the last traces of a smile that were left over from whatever conversation they'd been having and he nodded, hopping off the hood immediately.

"Why?" asked Sammy predictably.

"Because we've got to go." Sam frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but Dean got there first.

"Shut up and get in the car," he said, dragging Sam to his feet and around the far side of the Impala.

"Arthur!" John heard a woman call from behind him. "Arthur, get back here!" John barely had his hand on the driver's door when someone grabbed his arm and spun him around. It was the guy who was with Sandy, presumably his name was Arthur. John tensed, ready to fend off an attack, the guy was only an inch or so taller than him and less built, so John was pretty sure he could take him.

"I know what you are," said Arthur, almost snarling. John ignored the stab of fear and pushed it down, letting his anger come to the fore.

"Yeah? And what's that?" he bit back.

"A fucking--" Arthur never got to finish his answer because he was hauled off of John at that point, none too gently. A quick glance showed that Sam and Dean were standing at the front of the car watching the exchange closely. For a moment John couldn't think of anyone else who would have intervened.

"Okay!" said Sandy with an incredibly forced grin and a palm in the centre of Arthur's chest, keeping him at bay. "I don't think we need to go any further down that path, do we?" she glanced warily between John and his boys and then frowned at Arthur. "Arthur?" Arthur finally managed to drag his glare away from John and turned it towards Sandy.

"Did you manage to miss the part where they're monsters? We _kill _things like them!" John sincerely regretted not having a weapon on him other than his fists. Sandy looked at the John, and then Sam and Dean in alarm, taking in their change in posture after Arthur's little revelation. She turned back towards Arthur, her face a picture of rage and pulled him down to her level by his jacket.

"Did _you_ manage to miss the part where they _saved our lives_ ?" John managed to hide his surprise at Sandy's words. He'd done a lot of research on the nature of the wolf and had found that helping random passers-by wasn't something it was likely to do.

"But next time--"

"Go and wait in the car!" Sandy shouted, letting go of Arthur's jacket. Arthur didn't go anywhere, staring at Sandy in open astonishment. "Are you deaf as well as stupid? Go on, or I'll kick your ass there!"

"You can't... I'm not... " Arthur stuttered.

"I can and you are. _Go!_" Arthur clenched his jaw and stared at Sandy. John looked over to Sam and Dean. Dean caught his gaze and raised his eyebrows. John shrugged slightly. Then, to John's great surprise, Arthur turned and left.

Sandy scowled after him, before turning back towards John with a forced grin and a nervous chuckle. "I am so, so, _so_ sorry about my brother, I really am." Her eyes flicked towards the boys. "He really is a complete moron." Sam sniggered.

"I know what that's like!" Dean frowned and cuffed the back of Sam's head.

"Shut up, twerp." Sam was standing close enough to elbow Dean in the gut pretty hard. John sighed.

"Boys." They both looked at him. "Get in the car." Sandy watched them go with a slightly astonished look on her face. John stepped closer to her and kept his voice low.

"Are you gonna be able to keep him under control? Make sure he won't follow us?" Fear flitted through Sandy's eyes at his words, or maybe at how he was towering over her, but then she shook herself a little and smiled disarmingly.

"No, yeah, he's just a little hotheaded. He needs some time to cool down is all. Definitely won't be following anyone."

"Good. Because if he threatens us, we'll hunt him. We won't be able to stop ourselves." The fear was plain on Sandy's face when she answered.

"Y-yes. I understand. I mean, I saw what you did to that wendigo." She whistled appreciatively, bravado firmly back in place. John nodded and turned towards the car. "Good luck," she said as he opened the car door. He looked up at her again, but couldn't muster up a smile or any words of thanks, so he just climbed in and drove away.

Silence reigned inside the car for the best part of a mile before Sam finally piped up from the back seat.

"What's the matter with you two?" John glanced at him in the rear view mirror but just gripped the steering wheel harder. He couldn't bring himself to think about, let alone voice, all the things that could have gone wrong. Dean turned around in his seat so Sam could get the full effect of his look.

"Do you not get it? They found us last night in the forest while we were... we could've--"

"Yeah, but we didn't," Sam interrupted, "Didn't you hear what she said? We saved their lives!" Sammy beamed. "I always said we were good werewolves."

The End.

Well, not really the end, there'll be more at some point...


	6. Changes

A/N: Think right back to the beginning when only John was a werewolf, because that's when this is set. (I'd say I'm writing this in a weird order for artistic reasons, but I'd be lying)

Changes

Dad didn't go out tonight. Sam really doesn't like it when Dad doesn't go out. It means that he stays in and that means that no one's going to get any sleep. Dean doesn't even make them pretend any more. They just sit on the bed watching Dad. Tonight, Dad is watching them right back.

It's creepy, really creepy the way Dad's staring at them and Sam knows what Dean means when he says that it's Dad, but it's not _Dad_. Sam's kind of hiding behind Dean now, but he can't – won't – tear his eyes away from Dad's. So they're just watching each other, all three of them.

Sam doesn't know what Dad's even watching for. He only knows that him and Dean are watching Dad for any kind of movement because Dad can't be trusted like this. That used to confuse him a lot because Dad was one of two, maybe three people in the whole world that Sam could trust, but Sam gets it now. Sometimes he forgets how Dad can be when he changes, but when Dad's sitting across the room with a mouth full of fangs and staring at him, hard and unwavering, the last thing in Sam's mind is to trust him.

Dean's really tense. Even if Dean's hand wasn't clenched and almost painful on Sam's thigh, Dean's so tense that Sam can see it in every line of his body. It's because Dad's never done this before. He's stayed in before but he usually paces enough to make Sam dizzy. He usually comes over to check on them, to make sure they're still there and fine, and Sam likes the feel of Dad's heavy, familiar hand running through his hair and the soothing gruff noises he makes that are almost words.

But not tonight. Tonight he's watching them almost like... like he's hunting them. As soon as the thought creeps into Sam's head, his eyes widen and he shuffles closer to Dean. Dad sees him.

Quicker than should be possible, Dad's right up at the bed, towering over the both of them. Dean pushes a hand against Dad's chest, but even Sam can see it won't do any good if Dad's got a mind to do something to them. Not even if Dean were holding his knife properly, the knife that Dad gives to Dean before he goes to sleep – before he changes – and says not to let it go and that Dean's got to use it if he has to, with a weird pleading look in his eyes. Dean hasn't let the knife go; it's dangling loosely in his hand and pushing into Dad's clothing, but not in any threatening way.

Dad's still looking down at them, watching.

"Dad." The shock of Dean's voice where there was just the sound of their terrified breathing before almost makes Sam look away from Dad's unnatural eyes. "Dad, please, don't." Nothing about Dad's posture changes. "Don't do it, please, Dad." Sam finally looks at Dean at the revelation that Dean has an idea what's going to happen. A small voice rears up inside Sam in indignant rage that Dean didn't let him in on this thing, but it's quickly drowned out by the worry and fear that it can't be good because Dean sounds scared, and Dean should never sound like that.

Even worse is that Dad's not paying Dean any attention, though his eyes are flicking from Dean to Sam. He's weighing them up. He's going to do something and all Sam can hope is that it won't hurt. Whatever it is, just let it be quick.

It is quick. One moment Sam's staring up at his father, the next he's being held down against the bed. He's only got one arm across his chest, but that's enough because he can't slip out of the hold and he really can't push the arm off himself. The rest of Dad is pushing Dean down into the old mattress, almost completely covering him.

Dad's still silent as the grave, unlike Dean, who's begging and pleading and crying and Sam kind of wishes that he was the one Dad went for because it would mean not having to hear Dean. Dad leans in closer and Sam's no longer able to see Dean past the hunch of Dad's shoulder. Dean's hand grabs wildly at Sam and fists in the shirt at Sam's stomach. Sam's pinned in such a way that he can't move his arms to hold onto Dean's hand so he takes up Dean's cause of begging with Dad. He joins in with Dean's crying as well, even though he doesn't mean to. Dad looks up at him and Sam freezes, choking back a sob as fear crawls up his throat. Dad smiles at him, shushes him like a crying baby and eases his iron grip a little. Sam takes the chance to shift his arm and grab Dean's hand. It doesn't make him feel any better, but he hopes it'll help Dean.

Dad pulls back enough that Sam can see Dean's profile and watch the huge clawed hand cover half of Dean's face and finally put a stop to his terrified pleading. Sam feels useless lying mere inches from Dean but unable to do anything, he can't even manage to push words out of his mouth to bring Dad back to his senses, to appeal to the Dad that he _knows_ wouldn't hurt Dean, not like this.

Dean's eyes glance sideways and meet Sam's gaze. It's too quick and too dark for Sam to read anything but it feels like Dean's asking for his help, for him to _do something_ . But Sam doesn't know what he could do; his mind's gone blank.

Dad snarls and the moment's broken. They both look up at him. He bares his teeth – his fangs – and pounces.

Dean's yell is muffled, but it still sounds like the worst noise in the world to Sam. Dean's hand is clenched painfully tight and his nails might have even drawn blood, not that Sam's paying any attention to that. Sam belatedly kicks into action and starts struggling, trying to kick, hit or bite Dad, but he can't reach. It's only when he starts screaming that he gets Dad's attention.

Dad looks up from Dean's shoulder and Sam's eyes fixate on the blood seeping through Dean's shirt where Dad's mouth was. It takes him a few moments to notice that Dad's arm isn't holding him down any more, even then he doesn't move away because he's holding onto Dean. Dean's grip is slackening and that scares Sam so much the room sways in front of his eyes. Sam shakes Dean's arm and calls Dean's name until Dad pushes him away, frowning. Sam wants to scream every single bad word his eight-year-old mind can come up with.

Instead, he's struck dumb when Dad lifts and arranges Dean to lie on the bed properly and then backs off. Sam crawls up the bed to Dean's head and pats his cheek lightly. Dean's eyes are glazed when they open and they don't focus on Sam's face properly, but Dean still smiles.

"Hey, Sammy," he says slowly, "What's up?"

"Are you okay, Dean?" asks Sam, voice wavering and unsure. Dean frowns at him.

"Shoulder hurts. M'tired." Dean's eyes fall shut.

"Don't go to sleep!" Sam begs before he can stop himself; he doesn't want to be left alone with Dad. He's never been so scared of Dad in all his life, not even that first time Dad changed.

"M'not. Just restin' my eyes. Whassamatter wi' you anyway?" Sam's saved from having to think of an answer, from having to think about the fact that Dean's forgotten what happened not even five minutes ago by Dad returning. Sam wants to throw himself over Dean and fight Dad off with every last bit of strength in his body, but then he sees the first aid kit in Dad's hands and reluctantly shuffles aside.

"Da', stings," Dean complains when Dad cleans the bite. It's red and sore, swelling slightly, but Sam's denied a closer look when Dad tapes the dressing over it.

Dad then pulls the bed covers out from under Dean and tucks him in. Sam can't remember the last time Dad did that for either of them. He holds the covers up for Sam to slide in and Sam does so. Sam wraps himself around Dean and glares at Dad when he ruffles their hair. Dean's skin is clammy and too hot, but Sam can't bring himself to let go. Dean seems to be content in his sleep, anyway.

Sam doesn't sleep; he watches Dad pacing the room. He's pretty sure he knows what's happened and that Dean won't be the same when he wakes up, in the same little ways that Dad wasn't that first time.

Sam just doesn't know what that means yet.

The End of this bit.

"To be continued" sounds wrong because that would imply that I know what's I'm going to write next, which I really don't. But, uh, it will be continued.


	7. Outsider

A/N: Wow, look at that, I'm doing things chronologically and everything! So yeah, Dean's first change after being bitten.

Outsider

Sam hated Dean being a werewolf before Dean had even actually changed for the first time. He'd hated it from the moment Dad and Dean woke up the morning after and Sam had had to explain (almost) everything that had happened that night.

Then Dad had gone all quiet, which meant Dean went quiet. Sam knew that Dean being a werewolf wasn't really a good thing, but it didn't seem as bad as they were making it out to be. Dad had been a werewolf for nearly a whole year and they were all still alive, weren't they?

Dad had got really angry at Dean. He said that Dean should have killed him, because what else was the knife for? He'd looked so angry that Sam thought he might turn into his wolf-self without it even being night. Dean had looked like he was about to start crying as he stood there and said nothing. Didn't say anything about how they wouldn't want to live without a dad, nothing about Dad being the only person they had and they were going to hang onto him no matter what. It was the wolf that was bad, not Dad. Dad had stormed out when he'd seen that Dean wasn't going to say anything. The Impala pulled away so fast that gravel shot out from under the tires and cracked the window.

There had been a whole month between then and now full of tense silences and forced conversation and that unavoidable thought in all of their minds about what was going to happen at the next full moon. Sam and Dad were watching Dean closely for any of those little changes and Dean was getting annoyed with them doing it. It had been awful. It had been worse than when Dad first came back all wrong.

It was the first night of the week before the full moon and everyone was up and watching everyone else. Dean was determined to not go to sleep, so he wouldn't turn. Dad didn't say anything about that but he was lying on his bed like he was getting ready to go to sleep, even though he was wide awake. He was expecting Dean to turn eventually, though, Sam could tell because they were out in the middle of nowhere in an old hunter's cabin. Dad only took them out to places like this when he didn't know what was going to happen.

Sam thought that Dean was probably going to fall asleep, as well. They hadn't got much sleep the previous night because Dean had been all anxious and worried and he'd been exhausted and grouchy all day (and sometimes downright _mean_). His head kept dropping forward a little before he jerked it up again and usually Sam would find it funny, but this time it sent little thrills of terror through him.

Sam nudged Dean when his head drooped forward for slightly longer than usual. Dean shook his head and looked Dad. Sam didn't know why he was looking over there because Dad just looked back. Dean shuffled up the bed so his back was pressed against the headboard and Sam followed him.

"I think we should play a game to keep you awake." Dean nodded, but didn't smile like he normally would.

"Sure, what you want to play?" That stumped Sam a little, because normally Dean would suggest some game and it would be a really fun game, because Dean was the best at thinking of games. But Sam had to think of one this time. "Umm, I-spy?" and Dean nodded. Even though he always said I-spy was a crap game that babies could play. Sam snuggled up to Dean's side and stared out into the dark grey of the room. "I spy," he said, "With my little eye, something beginning with D."

Sam woke up to the feel of hot breath on his face. He was nestled into Dean's side and it was still dark, but Dean was breathing really heavily and right in his face.

"Dean," Sam groaned, "What are you doing?" Dean licked him. Sam froze. "Dean?" Dean laughed. He sounded all wrong, it sounded like a growl.

Sam tried to scramble away but Dean was too quick, far too quick, supernaturally quick and grabbed him by the shoulders. Sam yelped when Dean pulled him close and smelled him, like Dad did, but Dean was tasting as well, and scraping with his teeth. Sam panicked and struggled hard as he could. Dean chuckled and then threw Sam to the other end of the bed.

Sam tried to clamber off the bed, but Dean grabbed his ankle and pulled him back again. The blanket was no use for getting a purchase and Sam just dragged it with him. Dean flipped him and leaned over him with a grin full of teeth too long and sharp. Sam tried to back away but Dean grabbed him again and then threw him right off the side of the bed.

Sam landed hard on the floorboards and smacked the side of his head, but he shook off the pain and stumbled to his feet and away from the bed. Next thing he knew, Dean landed on him and he dropped back to the floor, his breath whooshing out of him and the brother on his back feeling like a ton of bricks. He flailed uselessly as he tried to get his breath back but Dean easily brought his limbs under control.

Sam recognised, with a slightly detached interest, the hold that Dean was using. It was one that Dean always used and one that Sam knew he couldn't get out of. It was also one that Sam knew could break your arm if you weren't careful, or more to the point, if Dean wasn't careful. And Dean wasn't being careful. Dean was stronger than ever before and with more energy and he kept pushing and leaning on Sam. Sam could feel his muscles straining and his bones creaking, but Dean was laughing and mouthing at his neck, Sam could feel the teeth. Sam bucked and kicked, but Dean just pushed his arm further into a position that it was just not made to be in.

"_Daaad!_" Sam screamed. This time Dean froze, and only seconds before he was pulled off of Sam completely. Sam lay on his front gathering himself back together. He wiped away the tears that he hadn't even noticed he was crying then sat up slowly and carefully, cradling his abused arm. He shakily pulled himself to his feet and was climbing back on the bed when Dean shrieked in some ungodly mixture of pain and fear.

Sam scrambled to the other side of the bed. Dad had Dean on the floor and was growling like the car did. Dean was just lying on his back and not even trying to fight, not even when Dad bared his teeth and lowered his head to Dean's exposed throat.

"No! Dad! Don't!" Sam leapt forward and desperate tried to pull Dad off, but Dad pushed him away without even looking up. Dad's growling reached a crescendo and he shifted his position, so he was eve more over Dean and Dean couldn't move without Dad knowing. Dean whimpered.

All other sounds stopped abruptly and Dean whimpered again, staring down at the top of his father's head. Dad pulled back and met Dean's gaze, frowning and snarling, and Dean immediately looked away. Dad seemed pleased with that and got to his feet with a short nod and the turned his attention towards Sam.

Sam took a step backwards into the bed, but Dad didn't look angry any more. Instead, he looked worried, and that almost made it easy to look past the eyes and the teeth and see the part of him that wasn't a wild animal (that's what Sam had decided being a werewolf was like; being a wild human). He gently took Sam's hurt arm and checked it for damage. Sam hissed when he turned it a little too far, but Dad seemed to decide that no real harm had been done. Dad then scooped him up and placed him carefully back on the bed. Sam didn't really like being treated so much like a baby, but he wasn't going to argue with a werewolf. His father ruffled his hair before leaning in close and smelling him. Sam knew now that that was just Dad's way of checking that he was all right.

Sam wondered what it was like to be a werewolf and have really good senses and super-fast reactions. He'd wondered it aloud once, and that had sent Dad completely off the deep end, telling him to not be so stupid, and that being a werewolf was a curse and he should never think differently. Sam knew that, of course, but heaven forbid he have a little curiosity. And anyway, Sam wasn't so sure that being the only non-werewolf in the family wasn't more of a curse.

Sam watched his brother warily as Dean edged his way along the bed, looking very sorry for himself. He slowly reached an arm out towards Sam and Sam tried not to let it phase him, but he could help it. He couldn't trust Dean like this. This Dean wasn't his Dean and Sam didn't want this Dean anywhere near him, not while the claw marks that covered his torso still throbbed and his arm was still sore.

Dean withdrew his hand and then flopped onto his side, eyes averted from Sam's. He whined when Sam made no move towards him, didn't even say anything. Sam pointedly turned his back on Dean and shut his eyes, willing himself to sleep. The sooner he slept, the sooner it would be morning and the sooner he'd have his brother back.

Dean whined again; it sounded a little bit like _sorry_. Sam curled tighter and slowly drifted off to sleep.

The End... of this bit. (If I say TBC, that might lead you to believe that I'm actually going to write something in a timely fashion, which is just never going to happen)

Thank you for reading!


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